


ash, dust

by Anonymous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Klance if you squint, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 03:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15832644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Far from home and unsure if he'll ever be able to return, Lance does his best to cope.





	ash, dust

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this when only season one had been released, so please keep that in mind.  
> This fic is about self-harm, so please be careful when reading.

Lance is sad sometimes, sure. Who wouldn't be? He’s stranded galaxies away from everything, everybody he's ever known and loved. The universe is so incredibly big, and he is so, so small.

He can deal with sadness, he knows. It weighs down on his chest and steals his breath from his lungs until he’s gasping, but he is no stranger to the feeling. He smiles and laughs all day, diligently playing the part of comic relief, and at night he retreats to his room and cries and dreams of home.

The anger is what he can't stand, though, that anger that won't go away no matter what he does. His normal habits are useless to him now: while the ship is not small, he can’t go for a run and hope for perfect isolation. The others are always, always close to him, and he can’t get away. Sharp words turned towards them on worse days do nothing to take the edge off his emotions, only serving to make him guiltier. Seething, blinding anger overtakes him every time he fucks up, every time he endangers one of his teammates, every time he puts a mission in jeopardy. Every time he opens his mouth and Hunk flinches away in hurt, Pidge stops talking, Shiro sighs in disappointment, and Keith. Keith yells, loud and irate, and Lance’s own emotions are reflected back at him, violent, vicious. He knows he’s only pushing them further away with each word he says, hurting them when they’ve done nothing wrong. He can't take it out on them, no, not with all the shit he's put them through, so he curls his hands into tight fists and sits, waiting for the feeling to leave.

And it’s not enough. The anger ebbs and recedes but it’s still there, roiling just beneath the surface, and it’s not enough, it’s never going to be enough.

It all comes to a head after what should have been a routine mission. It’s a distress beacon, nothing out of the ordinary, and Lance hopes he is not alone when he wishes for the mission’s simplicity. But, since nothing can be easy, their hopes of a quick rescue are dashed when they are greeted by a fleet of Galra ships. They’ve taken out stronger, but it’s still a struggle. The others are at the top of their game, and Lance finds himself fighting to keep up. His shots go wide, and he barely misses crashing more than a few times. His frustration rises and he feels Blue’s consciousness pushing back at him, telling him to calm down, take a deep breath, but he can’t. He needs to do better, be better. To be the hero he’s expected to be. He charges ahead, moving faster than he ever has before. The ship in front of him powers up its cannon, and he waits until the last second before neatly dodging the shot.

Pidge isn’t so lucky. They had been right behind Lance, facing away to take down another enemy. The shot is powerful, more powerful than Lance thought it would be. A huge hole is torn in Green, and Pidge cries out in pain over the radio before going silent.

Lance wheels around as soon as he isn’t in immediate danger, shooting forward to get to Pidge’s lion. The guilt rushes over him in waves; he should have warned Pidge, should have taken out the ship before it could do damage. He should have taken the hit himself.

The team makes a hasty retreat after that. Keith pushes Pidge’s lion through the wormhole, and Hunk and Shiro take up defense and try to prevent any further damage. Lance finds himself unable to do much of anything except flee, staying silent the whole way.

They find Pidge unconscious but alive, a nasty knock on their head and gashes down their arm. Their injuries are significant but not life threatening, and the team thanks the stars that it wasn’t any worse. They count that as a small victory and celebrate the damage they were able to do to the Galra’s forces.

It could have been worse, but it should have been better. He retreats to his room as soon as he can, no longer able to deal with the presence of others or their eyes on him. Lance can’t get Pidge’s cries out of his head, can’t erase the image of blood leaking from their forehead after having hit it on the console, can’t appease the anger at himself for trying to be a damn hero at the expense of everybody else. It will take weeks for Hunk to fix the damage to Green, months for Pidge to fully recover from their concussion, and Lance knows it’s his fault. He lies on his bed for hours, controlling his breathing in hopes of calming himself, but the red swirls in his vision and it won’t go away. He has a startling urge to break something, anything, but his room is empty, save for a photo of his family that he would never dream of ruining. His hands begin to tremble with the effort of staying still, and sudden energy courses through his veins. He is shaking, now, tremors running through his body. He stands up, pacing around the room in search of something suitable, breakable. His eyes land on the mirror in his bathroom, and before he knows what he’s doing he sends his fist straight through the glass.

It hurts. Of course it hurts, but Lance is shocked all the same. There’s a clean pain from the cuts in his hand, blood seeping out around the glass embedded in his fingers. He stares at it dumbly for a moment, gaping at his injuries, until he hears a knock at his door.

“Lance? Everything okay in there?” Shiro’s voice sounds from just outside, more than a tinge of worry coloring it.

And he can’t take care of these wounds by himself, so Lance rinses off his hand and makes his way to the door. “Yeah, I just got a little mad,” he admits with a lopsided grin on his face as he opens the door. “It was a mistake and man, do I regret it.”

Shiro takes one look at his hand and pulls him towards the med wing.

Allura tsks as she pulls glass fragments out from between his knuckles, Coran babbling nervously in the background as he locates a roll of bandages.

The antiseptic stings, but all Lance can think about is the way his anger drained out of him as his blood did. He doesn't regret it. The pain, if even for a little, offered him a respite from the constant rage and assuaged his guilt, and he doesn't regret it.

After he is bandaged, Shiro brings him aside and sits him down. “We need to talk about this,” he says, worry etched deep into the lines already present on his face. “This isn't like you. Are you doing okay?”

No, he isn't. It's a simple answer, three little words that could so easily fall from his mouth. He looks at Shiro, sees his arm, the scar across his nose, his bloodshot eyes and the purple smudged underneath them. No, Shiro has plenty to deal with already, real, terrible problems that nobody should have to experience. Lance has no reason to feel like he does, and he knows he can't trouble Shiro or anybody else with his problems. So he shakes his head, smiles. “I'm fine.” He offers nothing else, standing up and leaving as quickly as he can without drawing more attention to himself.

He can't bother them. He needs to take care of himself. If that involves unorthodox methods, then so be it. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep himself a functioning member of the team, to keep himself from letting them down, to be who he needs to be.

-

It’s small, at first.

He isn’t a fool. Lance sees their dwindling medical supplies, and given the nature of their work he can’t be selfish enough to waste any of it on himself, not for something like this.

The scissors are dull and his hand is hesitant, blade held in slightly shaking fingers and hovering just above his thigh. Is this what he wants to do? Is this worth it?

And he remembers his myriad of failures, recalls the reproachful looks from the others even as they speak of forgiveness. Everybody makes mistakes but not like him, not like he does, and he can feel the anger at himself building and building and

He makes the first slice. It doesn't break the skin; it can barely even be considered a scrape. But the pain is there, stinging and sharp, and he knows this is what he deserves.

His mind is blissfully blank, silent as it hasn't been in ages. Since before joining the garrison, maybe? He can't remember, but he doesn't care. He revels in the calm. For a few moments, there is nothing but pure relief.

Then the guilt hits. It blindsides him, slamming into him with all the intensity of a crashing ship. There’s a weight on his chest squeezing the breath out of his lungs, and all he can do is sit and wait for the feeling to pass. He looks at the damage he’s done and feels the burning shame. How could he resort to something like this? What kind of person is he to be able to do this to himself?

He makes three more.

Beads of blood well up after a few moments. These are worse than the first, although not by much. He dabs away the blood with a tissue and the wounds are already closed. He scowls at himself, at the injuries. All this and all he can offer is a few drops of blood? But he doesn’t go any further, can’t bring himself to worsen the damage.

Cleaning up is easy. There’s not much evidence; tissues are thrown out, hands are washed, and that’s it. His emotion drains as he cleans, leaving him calm and collected. He pulls on his jeans and the fabric irritates the cuts, but he deserves it. It’s a reminder of what he’s done and why he’s done it. He checks again to make sure he’s left nothing incriminating and leaves his room, feeling lighter than he has in a long while. He is in control, and he will stay that way.

-

The lines darken and then fade, and within a month he can barely see them. He can’t have that. He looks at them and remembers his failures, reminds himself to be better. He knows what he’s done to deserve the scars, and he knows he will continue to deserve them for a long while. The marks fade and so too does his sense of control, and he needs more.

They multiply. They are still shallow, still insignificant, but his legs are marred with scars. It’s ugly. He can’t stand to look at them, but he has to. He can’t forget, won’t forget, so he forces himself to stare at the damage he’s done.

His scissors break, after a while. They still function as blades, but Lance figures he can’t justify keeping the broken pieces in his room. Like this, they have no use that he can explain away, so he tosses them out. They weren’t going to cut it much longer regardless; he’s grown accustomed to the pain already.

A knife would work, he thinks, but they aren’t easy to come by. Hunk would notice one missing from the kitchen, and Keith would probably die if he lost his. The training knives are dull, and real weapons are far too conspicuous. No, he can’t do that.

Lance remembers the razor he keeps in his shower and chastises himself for not thinking of it before. Nobody will miss it. It’s easy. The cheap plastic is fragile beneath his foot, bending and breaking with a satisfying crunch. The metal blade clatters to the floor and that, too, is pleasing.

He has to be safe, he knows. He can’t risk ruining his health over a mistake, not when they have so much to worry about already. He drops the blade into his pocket and nonchalantly makes his way over to the kitchen. It’s empty, and he wastes no time in boiling a pot of water and sterilizing the blade.

The bandages are more difficult to come by, and the guilt gnaws away at him as he asks Allura where he can find medicine for headaches. He isn’t lying, not completely; his head does hurt, but he still feels dishonest in his intentions. She guides him into the med bay and roots through the cabinets in search of a first aid kid. While her back is turned, he steals a roll of dressings and shoves it into his pocket. It won’t be missed, he tells himself. A single roll won’t do any harm, and it’s better in the long run if it keeps him safer. This is okay, he’s okay.

“You seem a lot more tired lately, Lance,” Allura muses as she shakes a few tablets from a bottle. “It won’t do to have a paladin not performing at full capacity because of exhaustion.” She looks up at him and holds her hand out. “Make sure you’re sleeping enough, won’t you? And if something else is wrong-”

He grins at her and takes the pills. “Everything’s fine and dandy, princess.” He’s fine. He is. “I think I’m not getting enough water. No big deal. I’ll work on it.”

The look she sends his way is doubtful, and he schools his expression into what he hopes is a suave one. “If you’re sure,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“Thanks for the help, though.” He fills a cup and downs the meds, finishing the rest of the water for good measure. He takes his leave quickly after that, the presence of another too much to handle. He is tired, so tired, and interaction with somebody else has just diminished his energy even more.

In the safety of his room, he sits and thinks. The shame of his avoidance, of his lies and deceit, is almost unbearable and he hates himself for it. He’s been isolating himself from his teammates for so long, and he knows he’ll only get worse. This can’t be good for the team, can’t be good for the fate of the universe, and, god, isn’t he being selfish by distancing himself? But he knows that his presence will only bring down morale. He should have stayed in the barracks that day so the team could have a worthy blue paladin instead of him.

He wants to break something, to punch something, to-

There’s an itch in his legs, now, loud and angry and impossible to ignore, and it grows with each passing second. His hands shake and he digs his fingers into his thighs in an attempt to stave away the urges. It isn’t working. It never works.

He is careless and the blade is sharp against his fingertips, drawing out beads of blood. It’s even sharper against the skin of his thighs, biting in against the pale lines already there and oh wow that’s more blood than he expected there to be but he’s okay, he’s had worse. He makes a few more slices, practiced and precise, then cleans up as best as he can. There’s no way he’s going back out, not for a while, so he rinses the red off the razor with hot water from the sink and hopes that it will suffice.

He carefully hides the blade and bandages in the back of a drawer. Nobody is going to go through his things, but he figures it can’t hurt to be careful. A small part of him hopes that hiding it away from his own eyes will keep the urges quiet but he knows it won’t. It won’t.

It isn’t until a long while later, in the early hours when the ship is dark and his teammates are asleep, that Lance realizes that he can’t justify the broken razor any more than he can the broken scissors, but he is too far gone to care.

-

Lance is tired, so tired, and he’s running out of excuses. When he isn’t training, he spends most of his time in his room, laying in bed with the lights off. He doesn’t miss the worried glances cast at him by his teammates when he’s with them, knows he isn’t fooling anybody when he shoots them a smile, but he can’t find it within himself to care. They think something’s wrong? Fine. Maybe they’ll be motivated to find a better paladin this way.

Still, he doesn’t stop pretending. It’s easier, in a way, to force a smile onto his face and inflection into his voice than to admit that he isn’t doing as well as he should be. As time goes on, his attempts grow increasingly poor; his cheeks twitch and his mouth contorts itself into a grimace but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it? 

“Nice face,” Pidge says one day during an unexpected stretch of free time. They and Hunk are fiddling with a machine of some sort, no doubt something either world-changing or completely and entirely useless. “You should up your beauty sleep; clearly it isn’t working.”

“Okay, wow. Rude.” And he must be more tired than he realizes, because his next words slip out before he can stop himself. “I’ll have you know I haven’t been sleeping, thanks.”

Pidge shuts up at that, condescension giving way to concern as they peer at him through their glasses. Hunk, who has said nothing the entire exchange, watches him quietly.

Lance speaks before either can say anything. “Haha, uh.” Maybe something a little more convincing? “Kidding, I’m kidding! I sleep. Who doesn’t sleep? Not me, that’s who.” The words tumble out, fast, much too fast, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t stumble over them. He’s fine, nothing’s wrong. “I’m just fine,” he voices for good measure, just to make sure his teammates know. He knows his words do little to dispel their suspicion, but they’re all he can offer. He stands quickly, unsteady, and sidesteps a bit. “I’m going to go,” he pauses, thinks. “Do a thing.” The syllables drag out of his mouth, lengthening more than enough to betray his dishonesty. “See you.”

He hurries out of the room, but footsteps follow him almost immediately after. “Hey, buddy.” Hunk’s voice is soft, and his hand on Lance’s shoulder is gentle. “Walk with me?”

There’s a frustratingly large part of him that wants to shove Hunk’s hand off and leave, but Hunk is, regardless of how undeserving he is, Lance’s best friend, perhaps his only friend. He can’t hurt his friend, as much as he thinks it would be better for Hunk not to associate with him. Lance sighs to himself, shrugging in a way that hopefully doesn’t expose the uncertainty of his movement or the stiffness of his muscles. “Sure.”

The two walk for a ways in silence. Lance does his best to feign nonchalance, pretending he can’t feel Hunk’s eyes glancing at him every few seconds. After some time, Hunk stops. They’re in a secluded hallway that Lance is only half sure he recognizes. It’s unlikely they’ll find themselves with company; he’s sure this is intentional on Hunk’s part.

His heart rate picks up. Lance knows what Hunk wants to talk about and he knows that his usual answers won’t be enough.

“I’m worried about you,” Hunk states, his voice filled with concern. “I’m pretty sure I don’t need to point out why, because I think you’re worried about yourself too.” His friend meets his eyes, scanning his face for- what? Confirmation? “You know you can talk to me about anything. What’s wrong?”

Confide in his friend or lie for the good of the team? Both options leave a sour taste in his mouth. If it were about anything else, he knows he would owe Hunk honesty, knows that he would expect honesty from his friend if their roles were reversed. But Lance is a coward; his throat closes around the words, choking him before he even tries to form them. He can’t.

“I want to go home.” If he can’t offer the whole truth, he can at least offer some of it.

Something in his friend’s expression shifts. “Me, too. I know we’re helping the universe and all, but I miss life on Earth, you know?”

A moment passes. “Do you think we’ll make it back?”

Hunk’s silence says more than words could, and Lance shuffles closer to draw his friend into a hug. A moment passes in silence, but soon tremors wrack Hunk’s body and it’s clear he’s trying to hold in sobs. Lance can’t do much but rub circles into his back as he cries.

After a while, Lance swallows. “We’ll be okay, buddy,” and he knows it’s clear he doesn’t believe his own words, “and, hey, we have each other. We have-” he pauses. You have, he means, you have, Lance doesn’t belong with them, can’t bring the others down, can’t can’t can’t but Hunk doesn’t need that right now. “We have the team. You aren’t alone, Hunk, remember that.” It’s not the most comforting thing he could have said, but a glance at Hunk’s face confirms that it was something, at least.

“Thanks, Lance.”

The two sit in silence for a long while, reminiscing about home until the ship lights grow dark.

-

Lance stands in the kitchen, boiling a mug of water. It’s for tea, this time; after catching him, scrambling for a reasonable excuse, over the stove some time ago, Coran had assumed they were there for the same reason and insisted on talking extensively about Altean tea. Lance has since discovered that he actually does like it quite a bit. The box sits to his right. It’s an herbal mix from off planet, apparently once considered a delicacy. It’s fruity and strong, and it reminds him of home somehow. 

He drops the bag into the water and breathes in the steam, letting it warm his lungs. It’s peaceful, he’s relaxed, and he’s alone with uncharacteristically pleasant thoughts.

Until Keith gets there, that is.

His breathing is heavy, and given how quickly he downs his glass of water, he must have just returned from training. The cup is slammed onto the counter and Lance can almost hear Coran indignantly screeching at the disrespect.

He’s upset, that much is obvious. It’s nothing new, though, so Lance does his best to ignore it. He’s doing well and he needs to not start a fight, not right now, so he pointedly avoids eye contact and looks anywhere but at his teammate.

Said teammate, however, apparently has other ideas. “What’s your problem lately?”

“Are you talking to me, pretty boy?” Lance digs his blunt nails into his palm in an effort to distract himself from the irritation already flooding his system, lamenting the loss of his tranquility.

“Cut the crap, Lance, I’m not in the mood.”

Keith is rarely, if ever, in the mood, but Lance figures it wouldn’t do much to point it out other than stoke the flames.

“You’ve been avoiding the team for months now, and it’s only gotten worse. Voltron is kind of a group effort and you not being there is bringing us down.” Keith is facing him completely, shoulders square and feet spread wide. His hands grip the edges of the counter, white knuckled, and his eyes are narrow and judgmental.

“Hey, I didn’t realize you wanted me there. Thought I wasn’t focused enough?” He tries to keep his tone light, tries to keep the smirk on his face from slipping. “Admitting you enjoy my presence, hmm?” He inches towards the door, slowly, carefully. He wasn’t far before and with each step is that much closer to escape.

“See? You’re running away right now! You can’t avoid the question and you can’t keep avoiding us!” His eyes scan the surrounding area, even now keeping watch. “Damn it, Lance, this is impor-”

His eyebrows furrow together, jaw dropping slightly in confusion. His stare has settled, and Lance follows his gaze downwards. He feels his heart stop and his mug slip from his hand as he sees the dark stains spreading on his light jeans. Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he had taken care of it. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck he doesn’t know what to do, so he takes off running. His socked foot splashes in the puddle left by his still-warm tea, but he ignores its squelching and keeps going. Keith shouts something behind him but he doesn’t listen, doesn’t hear. He needs to get away, get away now.

His feet skid and slide on the smooth floors, threatening his balance with each misplaced step. He can hear footsteps pounding behind him and knows that Keith is giving chase, prays that it’s only him and none of the others. He rounds the corner that leads to their bunks, rushing into his room and locking the door as fast as he can.

With shaking hands he discards his pants and examines the bandages. There’s a lot of blood, but he can handle it. He can. He looks more closely and thank god, the bleeding is slow and many of the aggravated cuts have closed themselves already. Lance quickly rinses off the reopened wounds and replaces the dressings, tying them a little bit tighter. He should be okay. He’s okay.

He shoves his bloody clothes into the shower to deal with later and closes the curtain. There’s a loose pair of shorts in his drawers, somewhere, ones that he stole from Coran’s closet long ago. They’re half on when his door rattles, clicks, and opens harshly.

Keith stands in front of him, Allura’s master key in hand. He looks furious, face red and eyes wide, but there’s something else there. Lance knows better, but it looks like fear, almost? What would Keith be afraid of?

He steps in and closes the door, taking a deep breath. The anger drains from his expression, and he is tired. Lance is tired, too. They’re all tired.

Keith stops feet from Lance, staring. He’s out of place and obviously doesn’t quite know what to do, and with no small amount of awkwardness he gestures towards Lance’s bed. “Sit down and let’s talk.” There’s no ire in his voice, no aggression, nothing. It is careful and guarded and Lance doesn’t know what to make of it.

Lance doesn’t even find it within himself to make a raunchy joke, and he settles down onto the bed weakly. He looks away and says nothing.

“We, uh.” His teammate clears his throat, stops to think. “We thought you weren’t doing well but figured you didn’t want to talk about it, but we didn’t know it was this bad.” There’s still no emotion in his voice. “I saw the blood. Are you-” he swallows, and it seems he’s forcing himself to continue to speak. “Lance, are you hurting yourself?”

Lance is going to be sick. His stomach is in his throat and the bile is acrid on his tongue and he’s going to be sick. He’s hurting himself. Of course he knew he was, but hearing it said so plainly makes it sound so different, so disgusting. He is disgusting. He’s not fine, he’s not okay. How could he have ever thought he was?

Keith must notice the change, because he leans away a bit and holds up a placating hand. “It’s okay. Nobody’s mad at you.” 

Doubtful. His scoff is near-automatic, the sound harsh and jarring as it wrenches past the lump lodged in his throat. “Sure. What could there possibly be to be mad about?” Sudden bitter anger overpowers the nausea and he bites down hard on his tongue. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying.” Even so, a tinge of frustration seems to have seeped into Keith’s voice. “You could have come to us for help.”

Lance folds his arms and frowns. “I don’t need help.”

With a pointed glance down at the bandages visible under Lance’s shorts, Keith rolls his eyes. “Right, you’re clearly handling things just fine on your own.” He pauses for a moment, makes a face, and shakes his head. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Lance drags a shaking hand down his face and sighs. “Ugh, whatever. Just,” he flails his hand vaguely, “get on with it.”

Silence stretches between the two and it becomes increasingly clear that Keith is waiting for him to speak. Well. He isn’t going to. He presses clenched fists into his thighs and, oh right, he’s hurt himself and somebody knows, that’s what this is about.

His secret is no longer his secret, and the shame is overwhelming. He curls into himself, facing the wall so he doesn’t have to look into Keith’s concerned eyes. The silence continues for a moment, then- oh wow okay there’s a hand in his hair, carding through it gently but awkwardly as if it didn’t know what it was doing. The contact is unfamiliar, unexpected, but not unwanted, and Lance fights simultaneous urges to lean into it and to pull away from it. Instead, he stills and very, very carefully does not react.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” The admission shocks him a little bit; his distance has been for them and never for him, hasn't it? It seems to shock Keith as well; the hand stops moving and pulls back a bit.

“Lance…” Keith inhales, exhales slowly, inhales again. 

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this. It would be better if you pretended you didn’t see anything.” Lance laughs bitterly and presses a palm into his eye, trying to stave off the tears threatening to fall. “Emotions aren’t your thing, I get it.” He’s picking a fight, he knows he is. But he’d rather be angry, rather push Keith away, than talk about this. 

“No.”

“No?”

“We’re a team, Lance, and teammates are there for each other. Keeping something like this to yourself, it’s, it’s…” He’s struggling to find words. “...bad. You’re suffering, and we can help you through this.”

“What do you know? Have you ever even talked to another human before us? Because you could have fooled me.” It’s a low blow. He’s being needlessly cruel to somebody trying to help him, but he can’t stop himself. Lance feels Keith recoil behind him, tensing up as if ready for a fight.

“Fine. If not me, then talk to somebody else. But you can’t keep going on like this.” Keith stands and walks a few steps, and Lance continues to face away. “Where do you keep the blades?” Sharp and direct, it’s a command more than it is a question.

Lance stays silent.

“I’m not leaving without them, so either you tell me or I search through everything.” 

It’s not like he has anything to hide at this point, but maybe getting it over with will get Keith to leave a little faster so he can be by himself again. Lance rolls over and points, levelling Keith with a spiteful glare. “Top left drawer, in the back.”

There’s the sound of ruffled clothing for a little, and then the clink of metal. “Just the one?”

“Yeah.” And it is just the one. He doesn’t have anything else and he wonders what he’s going to use now.

“Okay.” Keith pockets the blade and places the bandages on top of the dresser. He moves towards the door, pauses, then seems to reconsider and turns back. “Just talk to us. Please. Instead of doing this. We’re here.”

Lance nods noncommittally, averting his eyes.

“One more thing. Do you want to tell Shiro or should I?”

Shit. He had hoped, somehow, that this problem would stop existing once Keith left the room. That it would go unacknowledged and he could continue his self-destruction in peace. Idealistic, he realizes belatedly. “Please don’t tell him. Don’t tell anybody.” That won’t help, he knows, but it’s worth a try?

Keith frowns at him. “You know I can’t do that, Lance.”

And yes. He knows. He sighs and swallows the knot in his throat. “Tell him for me, I guess,” he says quietly.

“He’ll probably be in as soon as I’m done. Are you gonna be okay on your own until then?”

He nods, probably unconvincingly but it’s the best he can do.

With that, his teammate leaves, and he’s alone with himself. With nothing to distract him he’s aware of how much his head hurts and how heavy his bones feel. He pulls the blankets over his body and shuts his eyes, willing his mind to wander. Maybe he should stay awake in anticipation of the difficult conversation ahead of him, but giving into his exhaustion is tempting, and when his consciousness begins to slip away he doesn’t fight it. He deserves to rest for a bit, he thinks.

-

Talking with Shiro had been, as he expected, exhausting, and he isn’t pleased with the changes he notices around him. The knives in the kitchen have disappeared, and he’s under supervision most hours of the day. It makes sense, but still. He feels stifled, scrutinized. He can’t miss the way his teammates look at him when he gazes at something sharp, can’t miss their carefully measured speech after he makes a mistake. He misses the casual ribbing, joking around when they could put the thoughts of war behind them for a while. Instead, he can’t look at Pidge without seeing the fear in their face when they found out about his behavior. He can’t look at Hunk without seeing his disappointment and sadness. He can’t stand it.

He hasn’t hurt himself since that day in the kitchen, but, oh, how he wants to. He can’t even get away with recklessness during missions since he’s so carefully watched. If he wasn’t dragging the team down before, he sure is now.

They check in with him frequently. Ask him how he’s doing, if there’s anything he needs to talk about. Has he hurt himself? Good, no, no, he’s been doing better, he promises. They check his room for blades regularly. There are none.

He spends his free days sitting in the common area, chatting about nothing with anybody that will listen. If he acts upbeat long enough, they’ll believe he’s back to normal and leave him to his own devices.

Time passes without incident, and he notices the restrictions loosening. He gets an hour alone here and there, then longer. The cooking utensils are back, although carefully watched, he’s sure. He’s allowed a further leash during missions.

Hunk pulls him aside after a minor mission one day. “Hey, I’m glad you’re doing better. You really had us worried, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m glad too. Thanks for being there.” Lance smiles right back at him, hoping his grin is convincing enough. The knife he stole off a footsoldier is a hundred pounds hidden under his armor.

Being hugged is nice, he thinks. He wishes he deserved it.

When night falls and he finds himself alone, he relishes in the pain. He doesn’t know how he’s lasted this long without it. This knife is even sharper than the razorblade, and it’s easy to split his skin and bleed.

Maybe a little too easy. The cuts are bleeding more freely than he’s used to, but he’ll be okay. Still, his unease only grows as he remembers what his friend said to him earlier. God, Hunk would be so disappointed if he knew. Why did he do this? Why couldn’t he get better instead of lying to his team like this? Why isn’t he making an effort?

He knows what he has to do. He doesn’t like it but it’s what needs to happen. He cleans and bandages the wounds. He’ll need to redress them soon, but this will work for now. Steeling himself, he opens his door and steps out into the hallway.

Lance knocks on the door of the bunk next to his. It’s late and there’s no guarantee his friend will be awake, but he needs to try. “Hey, Hunk?”

It takes a moment, but the door slides open to reveal a very sleepy paladin. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

He wants to deflect, to smile and say he just wanted to say hi. He can’t. “No. I need help.”

-

He relapses three more times after that. He wishes it were easy, that he could decide to be better and have it be enough. It isn’t.

His teammates, his friends, once he finally lets them in, help him as much as they’re able. Of course they all have their own troubles, and he does his best to help them in return. None of them are professionals and it shows, but they all do what they can.

He still can’t run like he likes to, but he’s found swimming laps in the strange Altean pool is just as helpful. He practices sparring, supervised when he isn’t sure he’s respecting his own limits. He establishes something as close to routine as he can get as a paladin of Voltron.

The day he wakes up and feels light almost goes by unnoticed. It’s only once he’s laughing unabashedly at his friends’ antics does he realize that the weight on his chest is almost gone. Huh.

It will come back eventually. Some days will be difficult. Some days will seem nearly impossible, and he will have to fight to keep from hurting himself. He knows this, feels an inkling of dread at the thought. His scars will be there forever, serving as a constant reminder that he could so easily fall back again. Even so, he’ll have people to support him through it when it happens again. He’ll be okay.

Yes, he’ll be okay.


End file.
